“Yes!” Paul shouts. He leaps to his feet, then reaches into the cab and picks me up. We hold each other close, neither speaking. An earthy smell rises from the wet pavement.
“Pardon,” a voice says a few seconds later. Paul and I break apart. Behind us stands the taxi driver, arms crossed. “Louvre, Mademoiselle?”
“The Louvre?” Paul looks from me to the driver, then back again, brow furrowed. Suddenly I want to melt into the pavement and disappear. “Were you that desperate to get away from me?”
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